


Simple Words

by Pawprinter



Series: Simple Pleasures [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nightmares, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-22 05:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20868803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pawprinter/pseuds/Pawprinter
Summary: After fighting in the 45th Hunger Games, Clarke has nightmares.





	Simple Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlodkruWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlodkruWrites/gifts).

> You knew I couldn’t stay away from this universe for too long!
> 
> This is set in the same universe as Simple Pleasures. It doesn’t give any new plot than what was already mentioned in the epilogue of Simple Pleasures (& it is actually set before chapter 51 (the epilogue) of Simple Pleasures). 
> 
> Warnings: this fic mentions past trauma and past character death from the arena. It also is exploring Clarke dealing with this. If you read Simple Pleasures, it follows the amount of angst and trauma in that fic.
> 
> This is dedicated to my lovely friend Blodkru on Tumblr. For my 500 follower celebration, they sent in the prompt “could you write a Linctavia fic? Prompt: Please stay with me.” We spoke after the fact and they were kind enough for me to turn it into Bellarke so I could write this fic!
> 
> Enjoy

Clarke woke up screaming.

She tasted metal on her tongue and felt warm liquid along her face when she came to. Her mind raced as she frantically tried to remember  _ why  _ she was scared,  _ why  _ she was screaming,  _ why _ —

She blinked rapidly, desperate to clear the blurriness from her eyes. Everything around her was shadowed, the light seemingly drained away.

Her chest heaved. She was covered in sweat. Her hair was glued to her neck and cheeks. Her chest ached, like someone had shoved their hands into her and ripped out her heart.

No, it was worse than that.  _ It was so much worse.  _ She could feel echoes of pain around her body. It was like poison, curling itself into every crevice of her soul.

It wasn’t just heartache. It was pure, unapologetic,  _ burning  _ ache.

Panic was quickly filling her chest, clouding her thoughts. Her legs were tangled in something. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t breathe. She was suffocating, she was drowning, she was—

Clarke stilled as memories came flooding back to her. She had been a tribute in the Hunger Games. She fought in the arena. She killed people. Blood was on her hands, just as it was on her tongue. People were  _ dead  _ because of her. 

She was a tribute. She died. She  _ fucking died.  _ She—

She was alive.

Her heart was pounding so hard that she could feel it across her chest. The lump in her throat made it nearly impossible to breathe. Fear sucked the life from her, leaving her petrified and gasping.

It was a nightmare. That’s what woke her up, scared beyond belief. She had a nightmare from inside the arena.

She didn’t die in the arena.  _ She was alive. _

Her knuckles groaned from how tightly she was gripping her sweat soaked sheets. The realization that she wasn’t dead filled her with even more dread. While it was a nightmare that woke her up, those images weren’t figments of her imagination.

_ Those were memories. _

All the death, all the pain — it was all real. The blood across her body — that was real — or, it had been, at one time. The scars on her flesh were there; the scars on her heart burned.

She shut her eyes tightly, like that could stop reality from crashing against her. Clarke knew it was something she couldn’t hide from.

She couldn’t run.

Not this time.

_ She could see their eyes.  _ The way Raven’s lit up when she spoke about her family. The way the corners of Monty’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. The way Murphy rolled his when he bickered with Raven. The way Wells’ eyes were unseeing, with blood flowing from his neck. The way Murphy’s shifted in and out of focus as he died. The way Cage’s were wide with fear as she stood over him.

Clarke shook her head wildly.

“No,” she said out loud. “Don’t.  _ Don’t.” _

It was too late. She could remember how Wells’ arm felt around her shoulders, just hours before he was murdered. She remembered how Raven gripped Murphy’s collar as she kissed him seconds before her own death. Clarke could still hear the way Luna’s voice shook when Ontari attacked her. 

How Murphy screamed as she operated on his arm.

How Charlotte’s face in the sky burned a hole into her chest.

How Octavia’s blood covered her hands.

How Atom cried and begged with her.

And how Bellamy—

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—

Clarke remembered the feel of Octavia’s shirt when she hauled her to her feet as the city crumbled around them. How the dust coated her lungs. How she struggled to see — struggled to breathe.

_ Bellamy.  _

Bellamy’s screams. His eyes growing lifeless. Her hands covered in his blood. Her soul ripping in half.

Water rushing into her lungs. Drowning. Screaming. Blood.  _ So much blood. _ From her own flesh, from Dax.

Cold.

Her body gave a violent shiver.  _ She could still feel the cold water filling her nose.  _ The cold hands of death gripping her body, or—

No. Not death. Those hands didn’t belong to death.

_ Mutts. _

The corpses from the lake. They weren’t Death, but they were close to. The long nails that dug into her skin, the grey flesh, the—

She screamed again as a hand grasped her forearm.

Clarke reacted on instinct, jolting away. She pulled so roughly that she ended up tumbling to the ground, knocking her leg on the bedpost on the way down.

“Stop!” she sobbed, still caught in-between reality and a nightmare. “Stop! Stop—!”

“Clarke! It’s me!” She stilled, her breathing still haggard, the panic rushing around her. “It’s me!”

_ Bellamy. _

She blinked wildly, but it was too dark to see. She could faintly see the outline of someone on the opposite side of her bed, their silhouette outlined by the moon beyond the curtains.

“Wha—?”

“You had a nightmare. It’s okay.”

It was his voice. She could recognize his voice anywhere, she imagined, she had grown so familiar with it over the last few months. 

Her throat was dry and raw. She could taste blood on her tongue. Her head was spinning.

“I don’t—” She tried again. “I—”

“It’s okay.” Clarke sucked in a breath and struggled to contain her emotions. “I’m turning on a light, okay?”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The blanket was tangled around her legs. The rough carpet dug into the palms of her hands. Her throat burned. Her body felt heavy.

Seconds later, light flooded the room and she winced. She glanced around, and—

Right. She was in the Capitol.

_ Still. _

A new sense of dread crept up in her as she began to remember the last few weeks. She was alive. She was pulled from the arena. Bellamy didn’t die. They were being held until their injuries healed enough. They were living with monsters that murdered children.

The same monsters that murdered her friends.  _ Wells. Raven. Murphy. Monty. Lincoln. Charlotte.  _

Bellamy appeared in front of her. Clarke’s eyes swept over him quickly. His hair was messy and his grey shirt was wrinkled, clearly having just woken up. Dark bags lined his eyes, giving away just how tired he was. 

“It was a nightmare. You’re safe.” His hand came to rest on her arm again. His touch was gentle and it soothed an ache blossoming in her chest.

She shook her head. “No. Not a nightmare.”

_ She wished it was a nightmare. _

They knew each other well enough for Bellamy to understand without more clarification. His expression softened and his fingers brushed against her arm.

“I dreamed about  _ them,”  _ she hissed. They both knew who she was talking about.

_ Them.  _ All the people they lost. Their family. The delinquents.

“I dreamed about it all. The arena. The death. The pain.” 

It was so much more than what simple words could convey. 

It wasn’t just  _ death;  _ it was the raw pain of having someone she loved ripped away from her. It wasn’t  _ death;  _ it was watching the life bleed out of someone as she held them. It was the gaping hole, the numbing tides rushing in her, the agony splitting her soul.

It wasn’t just  _ pain;  _ it was being so emotionally destroyed that she could feel it in her bones. It wasn’t  _ pain;  _ it was running until their joints  _ burned  _ because someone was hunting them, trying to kill them. It was sitting under the sun for hours, being tortured.

It wasn’t just the arena. It was the Games. It was being sent to die. Or, even worse, it was being sent to kill other innocent children.

It was so much worse than what words could convey. Nobody could truly understand what she went through in the arena.

_ Nobody except for Bellamy. _

He was right there with her. He knew what she had to do to survive, because he did it too. He lost just as many people as she did. He knew the guilt that came with being the ones that survived — it was the same guilt that she had.

He understood, so she didn’t have to say.

“It’s okay,” he repeated his words from earlier. He sunk to his knees in front of her and cupped her cheek tenderly. His thumb brushed against her cheeks, and—

She had been crying, she realized. He was brushing away her tears.

“We’re alright. We’re safe. We’re alive.” She listened to his words, even though she could feel the residue of the arena in her soul. She could smell the trees. She could hear the birds.

It all felt so real, despite what Bellamy was saying. It was nearly impossible to believe that they survived — the Becca saved them — that they were nearly free from it all. 

The last few years of her life taught her to expect the worst, and to never accept when anything seemed too good to be true.

But their fate was just as real as Bellamy’s hand against her skin. It was just as real as the rapid beats of her heart.

“We’re okay,” she echoed, her mouth moving sluggishly.

_ Physically, anyways.  _ For now, that had to be good enough. Emotionally being okay would come later.

Bellamy held her on the floor until she stopped sobbing. They’d been here before. Nightmares were common between them. She doubted the trauma from the arena would ever truly go away, but especially not when it was so fresh.

His arms were as comforting as they were back then, when they were stuck in the arena, both equally as sure that they were going to die. He brought her a sense of peace then, just as he did now.

_ Peace.  _ It was a nice word that went with a nice dream.

“When will this stop?” she asked, her voice breaking. Her fingers pulled at the front of his shirt, desperate to feel tethered to something real. “The nightmares? The pain?”

The regret, the grief, the mourning, the guilt?

When will it stop?

“I don’t know.”

His answer was truthful. Neither of them knew when things would get better. Neither of them knew when they’d get passed  _ okay,  _ and move into something better — something good.

It was under the heaviness of night that Clarke felt the worst. She held onto the idea of them finding themselves again; of them picking up the pieces of their broken souls and figuring out how everything fit together again.

She knew it was possible. It’s what she did after her father died. She knew grief didn’t last forever.

But, fuck, it was painful.

“We will get passed this,” he promised her, echoing her thoughts. “One day… One day, we’ll be okay.”

One day. It was almost like a promise. Clarke and Bellamy had a lot of promises; together, tomorrow, one day.

“Please stay with me?” she asked urgently. Her hands shook against his chest. “Please? I don’t want to be alone.”

He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head. “Always, Clarke. I’m here. I’ll always be here for you.”

_ Always. _

It was another promise. They were good at those.

That night, Clarke fell back asleep with Bellamy’s arms around her shoulders and the promise of peace on her mind.

**Author's Note:**

> I always intended on writing a fic that mirrors that one scene in Mockingjay (Part 1 & 2) where Peeta goes to comfort Katniss after nightmares. So, here it is! It was meant to be longer, but I keep getting in my own head and worrying about what I’m writing, so I’m posting it as is.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I miss writing Simple Pleasures, so it was nice to dip my toe into it again. 
> 
> Paw


End file.
